till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away
by Goldstraw
Summary: Summer 1940. As the battle for Britain rages in the blue skies of southern England, an equally ferocious battle is occurring on the ground.
1. Chapter 1

The sun beat down on the bright green airfield; blue skies had been a constant feature of this summer. On and on went the unbelievable heat, the air sultry in a manner not often found in England. And as the sun appeared every dawn, so the RAF had one sortie and then another and then another, day after day after day. Down came the German planes; few managed to breach the white cliffs of Dover. Down came Allied planes too. Too many, she thought. She was flying out planes from the factory at the rate of knots and every day, fresh-faced and innocent pilots took them, flew for a few precious moments and died. She tried not to think of that fact each time she felt the rumble, the satisfying growl of the engine as she started up and swung her Spitfire or Hurricane towards the airstrip.

Whose mother was receiving that dreaded letter this time she wondered, as she strode towards the small collection of rickety huts at the edge of the field. She could smell the salt in the air; they were only a couple of miles from the coast and so very much on the front line. Ducking through the hut door, she was greeted by a sea of faces looking at her with either surprise, confusion, outright hostility or a smirk. Stilled pens hung over crosswords, a card was about to be laid out on a table, a page about to be turned. About twelve or so men were strewn haphazardly on tatty sofas and armchairs and deck chairs, their bright yellow Mae Wests coming up to their chins in that awkward manner they had as they waited for the bell to send them running for their planes and the foe. Their squadron shield hung proudly on the wall; the gold scrolled letters spelling out _Kingsguard_, the crest showing it had royal approval. It had no member of the royal family in it at the moment, but it was a collection of the best fighter pilots Britain had, and my gods didn't they know it.

She coughed self-consciously. It was always like this; the men had seen ATA girls dropping off planes for months now but they still looked at her like she was German spy. Perhaps if she had been pretty and not the six foot one she was, there might have been more smiles than smirks.

"I'm looking for Wing Commander Selmy?" she asked, pulling off her flying helmet and running her hand through her sweaty short hair.

"He'll be back in five minutes."

"Right."

"You can wait here if you like."

She nodded, perching on the edge of a table. She rifled through the transfer papers in her hands as a reason not to catch a glance from the still vaguely hostile men.

"Aren't you that Tarth girl?" someone asked. Her heart sank.

Refusing to look up, she nodded quickly.

"Tarth, as in winner of the 1938 aerobatics competition in Paris?" someone else asked incredulously.

She was about to answer when someone else cut in. "No, can't have been her, Trant. Sure it wasn't a brother or someone?"

Her fists clenched in anger, crunching the papers. She shot a killing look to the plummy flight lieutenant who was about five years younger than her. "No, that was me. And bet I could fly that Spit," she pointed through the open window at the beautiful plane outside the hut, "better than you ever could, _chum_."

The huddle of three chaps that had just spoken looked suitably shocked, she was pleased to see. No fear of being brought up on disciplinary charges either; she was the equivalent of a squadron leader and so could put down as many flight lieutenants as she liked.

"Well, we do have a high opinion of ourselves don't we?" said yet another pilot, from the other side of the room. She turned towards him and saw the face that had been on every newspaper front page fifteen years ago. He had been accompanying the king on one of his test-flights when the king had crashed, died and caused a succession crisis. The remaining Targaryens had been forced into exile as Britain's current king took the throne in a manner that felt remarkably medieval. Conspiracy theories flew around the son of the richest earl in Britain: that Lannister had been the scape goat for a wider plot to get rid of the king, rumoured to be quite mad; that he had done it of out of spite and for celebrity; that his sister, socialite and now queen, had persuaded him to do it to improve her position. Despite the scandal, the family had survived. More than survived; they had help bring in the thirties with a new dynasty on the throne, a new direction for the country, and the money to see off the economic crisis. Indeed, Lannisters had never been far from power for hundreds of years. And Jaime Lannister, he had come out of the whole thing with only a faintly awful nickname and a reputation that no-one would be proud of. Anyone else would have been hung, drawn and quartered for treason and regicide.

"If there was a way we could prove your abilities, I would do it here and now. Shame that you can only fly from the factory and back again." His pitying smile was infuriating as it was false, twisting his face into something detestable. He ran his fingers through his bryl-creemed blonde hair, a perfect picture of relaxation in his role as the persecutor. It was clear he was in charge; not just because he was a squadron leader but the men seemed to hang onto every word.

It touched a sore point; more than anything she wanted to fight and fly, and not be a glorified lorry driver. She felt the fury building in her.

"I can't help that, as well you know. But then again that means I don't see the King come down in a ball of flames either, _Kingslayer_."

His look turned icy in an instant. His hands stilled, though he leant forward for maximum impact.

"I could sue you for libel. And then you and your little island would be stripped bare," he said, his voice as hard as his eyes. He raised his eyebrows at her surprised face. "Oh yes, I know you Brienne, even if you don't know me. There was only one hulking beast on the air circuit that didn't have something dangling between her legs," he paused for effect as a grubby titter ran through the men, "or perhaps I was mistaken?"

His cutting words did just that, and she felt herself wilt and pale at the insult. She caught one last look from him as she turned away, but she couldn't believe that there had been the tiniest flicker of regret there.

"What the hell is going on here?" the Wing Commander asked, picking up on the poisonous atmosphere immediately as he walked in.

"Nothing, sir. Here are the papers for the new Spit." She spat out the words as she shoved them into his hands.

"Ahh, right. Yes, of course. I'm glad the replacement got down here quickly, we're in damned need of them."

"Glad I can be of service, sir." With that, she stalked out of the hut. She had no-where to go until her lift back and so she sat on the perimeter of the airfield and wept.

It was just her misfortune to be allocated to be the regular girl for that particular airfield. She had absolutely no wish to see the Kingsguard or Lannister ever again. The first few times she had the fortune of arriving when the boys were out flying sorties or catching the group captain without seeing anyone else and each time she breathed a sigh of relief.

Today though, was not her lucky day. First, she had to abort her landing as she struggled with mis-functioning landing gear. She throttled the engine hard to lift the plane's nose up again and wheeled her around, fiddling with this and that until the hydraulics suddenly hissed into action and she felt the reassuring thud of the wheels coming down. She had done belly landings before, her old plane was renowned for not behaving, but a brand new Spit was not a prospect she fancied. Anyway, this meant she fell behind a sortie just coming back. In contrast to her newly painted, immaculate plane, theirs were bullet ridden, dark with engine smut and the boys extracting themselves looked tired and hot. As she unbent her own long body from the cockpit, stepping neatly onto the wing and jumping down while explaining the problem to the ground staff; she spotted Lannister heading in her direction. She wouldn't hide from him, but if conversation could be avoided then that would be preferable.

He nodded at her; she acknowledged it suspiciously. Where the rims of his goggles had dug in, his skin looked lurid and his face was flushed, sweat darkening his hair. Brienne recognised the look of a man who had lost a fellow pilot and she told herself to be nice. As he came up next to her, she awkwardly fell in step as they walked to the mess.

"My condolences," she said quietly.

"You can tell?"

"Sorrow is not hard to spot. I have seen it too much not to recognise it at a hundred paces."

He glanced at her, but asked no further questions.

"I should apologise for my behaviour at our previous meeting, m'lady."

No-one had called her that for years; not since she'd escaped Tarth to seek adventure four years previously. She had hid her ancestry, knowing that it was just another thing to make her stand out from the crowd. But hearing the term made her suddenly miss home. She hadn't had a letter from her father for ages and she felt guilty about not checking up on him.

"At least you remember your etiquette. What you said then was…" The heat of shame found its way to her cheeks again, "was unforgivable."

"I said I'm sorry."

She spun on her heel, making him stop in his tracks. A long finger poked at his chest and she looked him straight in the eye. She realised she was ever so slightly taller than him. All for the good, she thought.

"And yet, I don't believe you. You sound like a petulant child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. I know I am not your equal – though god knows who would be able to reach such heights – but really, were you taught no manners at all? I may come from a smaller house, have none of your wealth, but I know what constitutes respect or decency at least."

"Can't you take a joke?" He sounded bored, looking over her shoulder instead.

"About as well as you can, judging by your court cases against various newspapers," she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

His eyes snapped to hers, finally showing some emotion. "They were lies," he shot back, scowling.

"And so was yours. And not even an original one, I hasten to add. And I'm sick of it." Now it was her time to look away. It was hard to admit that she let the taunts get to her, let alone tell the bully in front of her.

"I envy you, you know," he said, after a moment. He almost sounded sad, but she wouldn't be fooled and still refused to look at him.

"I find that hard to believe."

"I envy you because you really have no idea at all. Ignorance truly is bliss."

He made to move away, but Brienne grabbed his arm and pulled him round. He bumped into her, eyes flashing in annoyance.

"You're a pig, do you know that? A right royal pig," she declared, exasperated.

He looked at her for a long moment and she wondered whether she had gone too far, but then he laughed. Uproariously and without restraint, hands slapping his thighs. She looked at him, confused. Eventually he quietened down. "Only one person ever calls me a pig and gets away with it. My brother."

"The Imp?" Perhaps the most charming of Lannisters and in contrast with his older brother, the newspapers loved him and his dalliances with call girls; entire careers had been forged on rumours created by the Imp.

"Tyrion," he corrected. "But you can be the second." And with that, he flashed her a white-toothed grin and walked away.

She watched him go, distinctly un-amused at how once again he had had the final word.


	2. Chapter 2

Brienne was writing a letter to her father that evening when she heard a timid knock on her door. She sighed at the nearly empty page; the words wouldn't come for some reason. When she'd left home for the first time, she had written every week describing her new experiences and new feelings. Replies had been supportive if not exactly enthusiastic. When war broke out, there had been a pleading phone call for her to come home once and for all. She'd refused, using king and country as an excuse. And now there was a distance between them that she didn't like but didn't know how to repair.

A second, stronger knock on her door shook her out of her thoughts.

"Come in."

A girl popped her head round the door, dark brown curls escaping their pins. "Ma'am wants to see you, Flight Captain."

Brienne looked up at Shireen. She was new to the ATA, but getting to grips with all the planes quickly. She recognised the girl's inner drive to achieve something, to prove to whoever looked at her cheek rather than her eyes that they were wrong about her.

"Yes, thank you." She stood and put her cap on in front of the mirror, brushing her hair away and underneath. Shireen skipped out of the way as she shut the door behind her.

"We're in the mess if you want to swing by afterwards. Margaery's found some sherry from god knows where."

Brienne rolled her eyes. "I think the least said about her sources the better." Shireen's laugh carried down the corridor and it made Brienne smile.

Moments later, it was Brienne's turn to knock and wait. She'd been approached to join the ATA by Commander Stark last year soon after she was given the task of organising the women's section. There had been no question about saying yes to her request; being grounded since the beginning of hostilities was slowly driving her mad. She now called a large manor house just outside Canterbury in Kent where the ferry pool was based home. At least for the foreseeable future.

"Enter."

Brienne stepped in and saluted sharply. Lady Catelyn sat behind a large desk that would have swamped her had she not had enough of a presence to fill the room. She was a mother to five children; but she also mothered the ATA girls as her own. A sharp word that made everyone sit up straight was found alongside a kind gesture to those upset or worried. Despite a husband high up in government and her eldest daughter engaged to the heir of the throne, she forged her own path and men and women alike respected her hugely. She looked tired and worried tonight though, and it made Brienne uneasy.

"Ahh, Tarth. Please sit." She caught Brienne's concerned gaze and sighed. "Well, I might as well tell you. It's bound to come out sooner or later. I've finally found out that Robb's been taken prisoner. I got a letter from the Red Cross." Robb was Lady Catelyn's oldest son and a major in the British Expeditionary Force. Lady Catelyn had taken to keeping the girls up to date with his exploits, it seemed to help her share her burden of worry. But the news of the Allied effort had only gone from bad to worse until the shambles of Dunkirk a month ago; many had escaped under the noses of the Germans but clearly not Robb.

"It must be a relief to know, ma'am."

"You're a kind girl, Brienne. But I won't rest until I hear from him himself." She took a deep breath and pulled herself up; that was the end of that conversation. "Right. Here are the new rotas for the weekend." She stretched over to give them to Brienne.

Brienne took a moment to read through them and frowned in confusion.

"I think there's been a mistake, ma'am. My name's not on the list."

"Ahh, yes. That's because it's been decided to give you a weekend pass."

Brienne looked up sharply. Lady Catelyn's intelligent eyes held her gaze. "But I don't need any leave, I-"

Lady Catelyn's cut her off with a brief motion of her hand. "You have been worked very hard Brienne, and we appreciate it. But I don't want you burning out and we can spare you for a couple of days. Now I know it's not enough time to go home, but I've organised for you to stay with my daughter in London. She'll take you out to drinks, a dance, a show – I mean, that's what all you girls want to do isn't it?"

Half put as a rhetorical question, and not wishing to offend Brienne nodded and smiled awkwardly. She knew Lady Catelyn meant well, but it was precisely the opposite of what she wanted to do. She had never been a dancing-drinking type of girl, she had never been introduced to society as a debutante like Sansa, and she had never been to London. Her stomach churned in anxiety at the thought of it all. She may have come from landed gentry, but she was a country mouse at heart and she liked it that way.

"Sansa will meet you off the five o'clock train at Charing Cross, by the tea place in the concourse. Don't forget your glad rags!"

Brienne watched as Lady Catelyn smiled encouragingly and took that as a sign that she was dismissed. She saluted and closed the door behind her before she let her shoulders drop in despair. Wherever Margeary had got the sherry, she needed a glass of it now. A very large glass.

She nearly cried when she realised she didn't even have a nice dress to wear. Not that she wanted to, but gods help her, she didn't want to stick out any more than she knew she would. Once again, Margeary used her magic on the black market to rustle up a cotton forget-me-not-blue dress that was simple but suited Brienne. That glass of sherry had led to another and the weekend plan had come out. It was a relief to share her worries; when she said she dreaded the whole thing several girls had shot her dark looks and muttered about being bloody ungrateful. It made her get a grip. She'd done more frightening things, things that could have been fatal and she didn't bat an eyelid. She could cope with a couple of days in London, being hosted in luxury.

She spotted Sansa straight away; she was the spitting image of her mother. Not quite a red head, she was tall and lithe, her well fitted coat and skirt drawing admiring glances from passer-bys. Quick eyes scanned the crowd until they alighted on Brienne and a smile lit up her face. No wonder she'd bagged the most eligible bachelor in the realm. After introductions, Brienne dutifully followed Sansa out to a waiting cab.

"I imagine you're starving – a quick dinner at mine and then there's this dance at Tyrion's that we are all going to." Sansa's Scottish accent was soft but educated.

"Oh, I didn't realise it was going to be a big do." This was so far beyond a drink and a dance in the local village hall that she felt overwhelmed already and they were still only sitting in the cab.

"It isn't really, he holds these things every week or so. Joff doesn't normally go, but since you're here I managed to persuade him."

"I hope I didn't put you two out. It was all a bit of a surprise."

"I can imagine. My mother still treats us like wee children who need to be taken to birthday parties."

"No, I didn't mean it like that. I am grateful to her for a lot."

Sansa smiled. "How is she anyway?"

"She is well. Worried about your brother, of course."

"Daddy will be frantic. One son a POW and one in Norway, out of contact."

"One in Norway?"

"Mother didn't tell you, did she? I have a half-brother in the BEF who was in the Norwegian campaign until that collapsed as well. A few men stayed behind to organise guerrilla attacks and such like. Everybody's seem to have forgotten about them, poor souls."

"I'm sure everything is alright."

"I hope so."

A silence fell. Looking out of the window as Brienne tried to gather her thoughts, her mind was taken off everything when she saw the sights and places that she had only read about. London looked beautiful, bathed in that not-quite-clear sunlight that came from the lack of rain. As the cab swept down Whitehall, she couldn't help but gasp as Parliament and Big Ben loomed over them. Sansa quickly caught on and became a tour guide, telling the reluctant cab driver to go round past Buckingham Palace especially for Brienne. The houses became bigger as they approached Belgravia, until they pulled up in front of a grand white stucco house in a long terrace.

"This is us!"

Brienne was showed to a beautifully appointed room to change before dinner. She pulled out her dress and tutted at the wrinkles. It would never stand up to the surroundings or the people, but it would have to do. Just as she was getting her hair into some semblance of order, she heard the gong for dinner. Patting her dress fretfully, she took a deep breath and walked down the stairs to the couple. Sansa was a picture of beauty; she had changed into a pale green silk dress that reached her ankles and trailed to her wrists. Joffrey was tall and blonde and looked quite bored and restless in his black tie. His handshake when he was introduced by Sansa was weak and limp and a complete contrast to Sansa's firm hug and declaration that Brienne looked simply lovely.

Brienne watched as Sansa bent down to peck a hello on Tyrion's cheek. Despite his short stature and mismatched eyes, Brienne could see why he attracted the girls. There was a confidence, an intelligence and a devil-may-care attitude that shone through. All the things Brienne wanted desperately for herself. He greeted her graciously, getting the two girls drinks and waving them through. Joffrey was held back with a firm hand on his arm; she couldn't hear what was being said over the music from the band but from the look on Joffrey's face it wasn't particularly pleasant.

"They don't get on. Different personalities," said Sansa, as she gently directed her to a free sofa.

"Oh, that's a shame."

"Yes, Joff doesn't like being teased and Tyrion finds it a good sport," she said, with an air of resignation that didn't suit her. After a moment, she sighed. "Excuse me, Brienne. I should probably find him and calm him down with a drink."

"Of course." Brienne took the opportunity to look around. Tyrion's house was large but homely; expensive paintings found themselves next to little mementoes of his numerous trips round the world, tattered sofas and obviously inherited furniture of the highest quality were pushed back against the walls to open up a dance floor. A swing band played in a corner. The chink of glasses and the buzz of conversation filled the room. Sipping her champagne gently and wrinkling her nose as the bubbles went the wrong way, she felt relieved when Sansa returned alone.

"He's upstairs, whiskey in hand, playing billiards. I'm sorry I abandoned you, but we do what we must." Her face was strained and pre-occupied. Even to an innocent like Brienne, she could tell something was wrong.

"Please don't be."

The room suddenly hushed as Tyrion walked in with his twin siblings soaring above him. Brienne froze. She couldn't face Jaime; not on his turf, not with his family here, not with her looking ridiculous in a make do dress. An excuse about a headache and she could jump in a cab and disappear.

"Ladies, gentlemen please, let's have no fuss. My sister may be Queen but she's probably still a human," said Tyrion, with a shout bigger than his body. A ripple of nervous laughter ran round the room; everyone could see that Queen Cersei was shooting daggers at her younger brother. "And my brother, well you all know him. Now please, drink and forget about the war for a little while."

As the chatter started up again, Cersei slid seamlessly through the crowd to Sansa who was still standing next to Brienne. She didn't want a conversation with any of the Lannisters so she bobbed a curtsey and murmured something about getting more drinks.

She found a chair in a dark corner and sank into it. More and more people were pairing up and waltzing round; the band was very good. She enjoyed the music despite having two left feet when it came to any sort of dancing. Several songs came and went, and she began to wonder if she should find Sansa again when the crowds on the floor enveloped Jaime and his sister as they began to dance. From where she sat, she could see them clearly despite the gloom and the other people thronging round them. Cersei was wearing almost the same blue as Jaime's RAF uniform, her blonde hair as tightly curled and pinned as Jaime's was brushed and dampened. There was no doubt they were a handsome pair. They were intense in their grip, moving to their own beat and oblivious to anyone else. Twins were odd like that, Brienne supposed, not the same person but not quite apart either. Sometimes Cersei moved her lips, what was said was lost in the music, and Jaime nodded his head in agreement. It suddenly felt like she was being a peeping tom, uncomfortable and not quite proper. As soon as they were facing away from her, she slipped out of the chair and round the crowds and into the cool hall.

She wondered where Sansa was, and then remembered she talked about Joff being upstairs. As she reached the landing she heard crying and pleading in an accent that could only be Sansa's. Brienne's pulse quickened; what on earth was going on? Walking quickly to the room that seemed to be the source, she found the door was ajar. She saw poor Sansa there under a yellow pool of light, surrounded by Joff and other boys like a lamb to the slaughter. There was a bright line of blood from the corner of her mouth and she was desperately trying to keep her dignity in tact by holding up her ripped dress.

"Get it off, girl." Joff's drawl, drunk as it sounded, was instantly recognisable and despite the fact he had his back to Brienne, she could imagine the sneer on his face.

Sansa let out another sob, but her hands didn't move from her dress.

"Off. Off. Off." The chant grew slowly in the room, filling it with hatred and poison. Joff nodded at one of his equally ghastly friends who approached Sansa with a predatory stare and a smile that wouldn't look out of place on a hyena. Brienne walked into the room just as a huge man, taller than anyone she had met, stepped from the shadows.

"Enough." His voice was dark enough to make everyone pause and turn to him, including Brienne. He was dressed in black tie as the others were, but there the resemblances stopped. He was half as tall again as Joff, and twice as wide. But most striking was the burnt half of his face. It did nothing to reduce the menace emanating from him.

"Shut up, dog," slurred Joff.

The man glared at the blonde boy, but said nothing. Instead he walked into the circle, put his jacket over Sansa's shoulders, and led her by the arm out of the room as Brienne backed up, firmly shutting the door behind her. She stared at him and then at Sansa and then back again. Sansa's sobs started again, and she had to lean against the man to stay upright.

"Thank you, Mr…" Brienne asked the man.

"The name's Sandor Clegane." He had a faint Somerset burr under the gruffness.

Brienne reached for Sansa, shifting her unsteady body to her arms. "Thank you Mr Clegane. For what you did in there. I can't believe what I just saw."

He snorted. "It's nothing new for the poor thing. Aye, she hides the bruises well enough for most. And she puts on a brave face but it counts for nothing in front of them."

Brienne hugged Sansa a little tighter in anger. "And who are you? Why didn't you stop it earlier?"

"Look here miss, the whole bleeding family is a nest of vipers. You understand? I've seen men cross that bastard boy and lose more than their money or position. I don't need you to tell me what to do about the girl, believe me. I look out for her, but I can't be there all the time."

"I'll take her back to her mother. I can't leave her here, with him."

"They won't let her go… it's a dangerous business you're getting mixed up in here, miss. One that you don't understand."

"Then tell me, for goodness sake!"

"My life wouldn't be worth living if I did."

Sansa stirred in Brienne's arms. "I can't go… I just can't. They'll hurt Daddy and I can't let that happen." Her voice was heavy with tears but the urgency of what she was saying came through loud and strong.

"What do you mean, Sansa?"

"Hush, both of you," Sandor growled at the girls. "Take her home, sort her out. And you keep mum about anything she tells you, if you value your life."


	3. Chapter 3

Brienne watched as Sandor's gaze moved to over her shoulder and realised too late that he had become unnaturally still.

"Well, what have we here?" asked Cersei, her voice breaking the fearful silence.

Giving Sansa back to Sandor with a look that she hoped would impart how he must keep her safe at all costs, Brienne turned and with difficulty, looked at the queen. She could see why even a man the size of Sandor had frozen; Cersei carried an aura of controlled cruelty, ready to strike down whoever stood in her way.

"I asked a question."

Brienne swallowed. What could she say that wouldn't bring more trouble down on their heads? "Your majesty. I was just looking for Sansa as we were about to go home."

Cersei smiled at her in a way that told her she knew Brienne was lying through her teeth. "She's staying here tonight."

"She's not feeling very well, ma'am." It was a last and desperate attempt to rescue Sansa but Brienne knew that any plan to smuggle Sansa out there and then had crumbled into dust.

Cersei took a step forward and brought her face close to Brienne's. "I know who you are," she hissed, "and if you think you can lie to me and get away with it then you are sorely mistaken." She pulled away and clicked her fingers, making Brienne jump slightly. A small man appeared at her side. He had dark, indecipherable eyes and a thin moustache that accentuated his smirk. "Ahh, Littlefinger. See Lady Brienne out and do make sure she gets home _safely_, won't you?" Brienne could feel the blood draining out of her face. The threat in her voice was unmissable as was Littlefinger's grasp on her arm. He was more lounge lizard than man, but his hold was surprisingly tight. Before she could argue or fight back, she was marched down the stairs.

It was only when she heard the order for Sandor to take Sansa away that she snapped to her senses. "Where are you taking her?! Let her go!" shouted Brienne, wresting away from Littlefinger. Apart from Littlefinger's high mocking laugh, no-one answered her pleas and then there were more strong hands on her that pushed her unwillingly down, out and into a cab.

There was no Sansa at the house after Brienne's sleepless night; only servants that wouldn't answer her questions or catch her eye. Littlefinger appeared again with a simple message as Brienne was departing for the railway station. "You speak of this to anyone, Sansa has a terrible accident. Understand?" He said it with such imperturbability, as if he said it every day, that it took a moment for Brienne to realise his meaning and numbly nod her understanding.

Brienne heard the echoes of the queen's and Littlefinger's threat every day since. At night, their distorted voices were accompanied by Sansa's sobs and snatches of the queen's cold green eyes and long white hands; Brienne woke gasping and suffering from her cowardice. Suffocated and consumed by her inability to do anything, she was more taciturn and wary than usual. Concerned looks and questions from the girls were shrugged off with a few vague words. Sometimes, Brienne selfishly wondered if her feelings of hopeless would ever end or if it was easier to let it overcome you like a pool of quick-sand and then she hated herself even more for even thinking about giving in.

Even flying more than ever as she took every shift available didn't help; it didn't distract her at all. She was trying to think about what she could do next as she walked across the airfield one evening, hot and heavy and distracted. She didn't see Jaime until it was too late, but even a distant glance made her feel nauseous. He looked far too much like his sister and her breath caught. She stopped, looking for an escape route, but he spotted her and loped over.

"Tarth! Haven't seen your disapproving face round here for an age. Where have you been?"

She pursed her lips, staring deliberately at her boots.

"Hmm. I see the pout. I see the freckles. But where are the cutting remarks and withering asides? Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?"

"Go away, Lannister." Her voice was quiet and resigned.

"She speaks!"

She looked up at him sharply to see a face full of gentle humour, but she felt on the edge of insanity. "I need to get on."

"What's wrong?" He sounded more serious now.

"Nothing."

"Is looking as miserable as sin just a Tarth thing then?"

She brushed a hand over her face to stave off the oncoming waterworks but something had snapped inside her that night, something that she had been trying to patch up ever since. Jaime's innocent question undid all her efforts.

As tears leaked down her cheeks, words escaped her mouth, falling over one another in a jumble. "Joffrey…hit Sansa and I tried to take her away but I couldn't, I couldn't! And then your sister stopped us… Sansa was so frightened and I couldn't do anything… I just left her there… I hate myself… I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!" The panic distorted her voice so she barely recognised it. Then her hands snapped to her mouth. She suddenly realised who she was revealing all this to. "Oh god, please please don't say anything. I should have never said anything to you…oh god, oh god…" She closed her eyes to shut out the world. She craved darkness and quiet where she didn't have to think about anything ever again.

She felt a pressure of a hand on her arm. Opening her eyes slowly, she blinked at Jaime through her sodden eyelashes.

"Come with me." His voice was authoritative.

"What are you doing?" she asked unnerved, pulling away from his touch sharply.

He rolled his eyes at her reaction. "Christ, Tarth, I was only going to sit you down and give you a cup of tea. I can't stand to see ladies crying and I'm parched myself. Now come along."

Brienne stood her ground, wiping her hands over her face but barely controlling her sobs. "You mustn't tell anyone, please!"

"I don't have the first clue what you are going on about so I wouldn't even have anything to say without sounding quite mad, but suppose if I give you my word that I won't say a thing, would that be enough?"

She looked at him as she tried to weigh up her options through the fog in her mind. On the one hand, she barely knew him and had absolutely no reason to trust or believe a word he said. He had been horrid to her so far and she was just letting herself in for more bullying. On the other, he was the only person she could think of who might be of help and she couldn't walk away now. He wasn't stupid. She took a deep breath, shrugged in surrender and let him take charge.

"Aren't you on call?" she asked, trying to be normal and not the snivelling wreck she looked.

He glanced at her. "No, finished for today, thank god. Wish the weather would break, give us all a rest from the bastards." He looked tired and drawn out; the lines round his eyes and forehead seemed ingrained now, his hair no longer smooth and slicked back but messy from where he pulled off his flying cap and hadn't bothered to fix it.

She was sat down in a deckchair in the cool lengthening shadows round the back of the mess while Jaime fetched the tea. A cup was put into her hands; she sipped it and tasted the toe-curling sugariness. She still felt dazed, like she'd just been woken up from a deep sleep and didn't know where she was.

He settled into a chair next to her, rolling up his shirt sleeves to reveal tanned arms and loosening his tie. Their long legs stretched out towards damaged planes, waiting for repairs. "What have you got yourself mixed up in?"

Jaime's quiet question pulled her out of her thoughts. She took another sip of tea and sniffed again and haltingly told him what had occurred. He didn't look at her as she spoke, but his hands curled into fists when she described Joffrey's acts and he cocked his head in mutual confusion when she repeated Sansa's cries about her father. It was only when she described the queen's and Littlefinger's threats to her and Sansa that he turned to her, revealing an ireful expression.

"Always disliked that man," muttered Jaime.

"Why is he called that?" asked Brienne innocently.

Jaime laughed abruptly with a sideways glance to check she was actually being serious. "Well, the version suitable for your ears is that he comes from the smallest island on the Fingers, in the Irish Sea."

"What's the other version?" Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Oh. I see." She blushed at his knowing look.

"Hmm," chuckled Jaime.

"And Joffrey. Why did is he such a nasty piece of work?" she asked, almost glibly. This time Jaime was silent. "I'm sorry," she uttered quickly even though she wasn't.

He sighed. "Out of the mouths of babes oft times come gems, isn't that what they say? How old are you anyway?"

"Twenty," she shifted anxiously in her chair. She was put off by the way his questions moved from topic to the next almost randomly.

"Eighteen when you won Paris?" he nodded, impressed.

She shrugged self-consciously. "I wasn't by myself. Renly's team."

"Ahh yes. The _Rainbows_?"

She nodded. She hoped he wouldn't ask any more questions about it, especially when tears were already not far away. The last time she saw Renly, their brilliant leader, was when she drunkenly tried to kiss him on the night after she'd won only to be laughingly knocked back. She'd run from the room then and hadn't seen anyone from that time since. She had cried the day she heard Renly had died.

Jaime noticed her withdrawal, and to his credit remained silent.

"I feel so useless about Sansa," Brienne declared after a while, hoping to move his interest away from her. She wondered what Jaime was thinking of the whole situation.

He shifted in his chair. "I barely recognised you in that dress, you know," remarked Jaime after a long silence.

Brienne clenched her jaw. She knew she wasn't hard to miss, whatever she was wearing. And so typical of him to change the subject again. "I didn't want to wear it in the first place," she responded, annoyed.

He turned to her with a shadow of a smile. "Blue suits you." He held her gaze until she grew shy under his contemplation and looked away. "What do you expect me to do, Brienne?"

"Will you speak to her, your sister? Persuade her to let Sansa go?" Brienne leant forward in hope.

Jaime snorted. "What makes you think I have any influence with Cersei?"

"You seemed close. I saw you two dancing."

Something flickered over his face, but he controlled it within an instant. "It's not as easy as 'having a word' if what you say is true."

"So you won't help?" said Brienne with a fretful catch to her voice.

He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. He leant towards Brienne. "I have one question for you. Why do you care so much? You met Sansa only the once and it seems as if you're well out of whatever this is."

Her amazement that he could even ask such a question was made plain on her face. "I don't care that I barely know her! She's being tormented and I can't just leave her there. The fact that I did is unforgivable. And her mother… I owe her a great deal."

"You're doing this out of a sense of duty?" asked Jaime, curious. Brienne realised that there was more to his scrutiny than the flinty sharpness of his twin's, but he was much harder to read than Cersei who made her feelings obvious.

"No! It's more than that…it's difficult to explain. Haven't you ever felt the same? Would you just leave her there?"

His gaze turned to an angry glare in a split second. He barked a harsh laugh at her. "No, of course not. You think I don't have a sense of duty, of honour? I put my life on the line every day here. Every time I come back and one of my men doesn't, I wish it was me that died. Me! Don't you lecture me about duty or honourable acts, Brienne, don't you bloody dare." She flinched at his sudden vehemence.

"Why is this different then?" Brienne shot back. She felt her face reddening; she was indignant but the hurt in his eyes at her accusation couldn't be missed.

"It isn't black and white. It never is, sweetheart," he said with a patronising edge.

His assumption made her furious. She got up and stood in front of Jaime, making sure to catch his eye as he looked up in surprise. "I know what is right and what is wrong. And if you won't help me, then I will find another way." She turned on her heel and tried to walk away with what little dignity she had left.

She heard the creak of the chair as Jaime stood. A few seconds later she was swung around by Jaime's grip on her elbow and pulled up to him so his cheek was pressed against hers. "And I know that there is a difference between doing the right thing for the wrong reasons and the wrong thing for the right reasons," he whispered emphatically. Brienne felt the soft stubble on her cheek, his warm breath tickling as she took in his passionate words.

Jaime let go and they pulled away a fraction. He seemed a different man for an instant; torn between conflicting forces that were stronger than he could ever be. It made him appear unutterably tired with the world.

"And what's this? Is it the right or wrong thing?" asked Brienne softly, looking straight into his green eyes.

"Both. Neither. I don't know. If she was with anyone else, then I'd be straight round there like a bloody knight in shining armour. But my family," his shoulders sagged, "it makes it complicated."

"You're the only person who_can_ help!"

He heaved a worn-out sigh at her imploring tone of voice. "I'm not sure that I am."

Brienne's face crumpled in disappointment. "Please, Jaime."

He closed his eyes for what seemed an eternity. When he opened them again, she saw his struggle had been abandoned. "I'll see what I can find out. But I'm not promising anything."

She let out the breath she'd been holding unconsciously and nodded slowly in relief. She would have hugged him but she didn't imagine that he would take kindly to that. "Well, I'm grateful for anything you can do," she said, with a wary smile. He shrugged off her empathy, emotions once again under firm control.

Agreement reached, they walked back to the mess in an uneasy silence. "Let me drive you home, it's getting late," offered Jaime, pointing to his Aston Martin sports car that was parked in the dappled shade of a few trees. He sounded reluctant, as if it was only their argument that reminded him how he should behave. Her whistle of appreciation though prompted a pleased and proud grin from Jaime and dispersed her idea of refusing the lift. They swapped a few words on fast machines but mostly there was just the roaring of the engine until Jaime swung the car round the gravel entrance to the ATA manor house.

"I'll telephone when I've found out something. Don't hold your breath though."

Brienne nodded and opened the door. She hesitated for a second and turned to him.

"I know," she said shyly.

"Know what?" asked Jaime, eyes creased against the setting sun.

"That you know the difference between right and wrong."

When he dropped his gaze suddenly, she reached for his forearm and gave the sun-warmed skin the briefest of touches. With a murmured thank you, she was gone.


End file.
